


Of Nights Revealed

by musiclily88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6960553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I haven’t written Harry Potter fanfic in for-fucking-ever and I haven’t written Drarry ever, and I LOVE DRARRY. So here is some Drarry, post-war? It’s pretty gay.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Of Nights Revealed

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written Harry Potter fanfic in for-fucking-ever and I haven’t written Drarry ever, and I LOVE DRARRY. So here is some Drarry, post-war? It’s pretty gay.

Draco heaves his satchel up higher onto his shoulder, feeling very undignified, cursing the inconvenience of doing things the old-fashioned way. As it were.

He slouches into the secondhand bookstore, Wiltshire’s finest. His bag is full of dusty old tomes that should fit right in to this shop, its shelves practically heaving with decades-old manuscripts and hardcovers. The last time he brought books in, the proprietor, Mrs.-Georges-Call-Me-Sandy referred to them as “magical realism.” To Draco, they’re just children’s stories and dry magic history texts that hold no value to him except for the money they can procure. Very little of the Manor has sentimental meaning for him anymore.

He unloads his wares and makes stilted pleasantries with Mrs. Georges, exchanging his satchel’s contents for flimsy banknotes that feel laughably lightweight in his hand. They’ve little substance to them, and it’s a wonder they don’t just float away.

He feels nearly a stone lighter when he exits, bag now only holding his small leather journal and his camera. Then he stumbles, literally stumbles, onto something so unexpected as to be laughable.

Harry, Harry _Potter_ is leaned against the exterior wall to the store, looking so steadfast that he might as well be holding the wall up himself. He’s got one leg bent, foot flat on the wall, and he’s _smoking._ Draco laughs aloud, because he can’t not, realizing belatedly that this will draw attention to himself.

Harry looks at him passively, facial expression not changing one whit. He drops the cigarette and rubs the flame out with one foot before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

They aren’t friends or even passing acquaintances, so Draco really has no idea why the sudden image of Harry Potter, _here_ has struck him so. Perhaps because he never expects to see anyone magical in little old Wiltshire—at least not anymore. The occupation of the Manor once told a different story.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks, for something to fill the space.

Potter nods to the shop just left.

Draco hums. “Didn’t know you could read.”

Potter snorts. “And you?”

“Getting rid of odds and ends.” He shrugs. “Good riddance to old rubbish.”

“Here, though? You stuck around _here?”_

“You mean my home?” Draco’s brows furrow.

“Oh. I suppose that’s how you would think of it.”

“You think that’s how it should be to me, you mean? That it’s how I ought to think of this place? Rather than the rest of—oh, society, anyone with morals. Anyone who matters.”

Potter blinks slowly. “Might be projecting a bit on that one, mate.”

“Not your mate,” Draco breathes. “But look at you, throwing around those two-knut therapy words.”

“Whatever. I’m not doing this. Not here and certainly now with you.”

“Oh lovely! I see that manners course really did wonders for you. Now if only you could afford to purchase a hairbrush.”

“Surprised you can even _see_ my hair over your nose in the air on that high horse,” Potter mutters, turning away to enter the bookstore.

“Your elocution could use some work, too!”

Sometimes it’s a bit too easy to fall off one’s high horse directly into the gutter.

***

“Absolutely not,” Harry crows to Ron, feeling himself go pale. He stares incredulously at Ron for a moment before turning away.

“Let’s please be reasonable,” Ron murmurs, and Harry wants to thank him for agreeing but grows further incensed when he sees that Ron is talking _to_ him, not about the situation at hand.

“I’m always—almost always reasonable!”

“No, of course, except about evil, savioring, self-sacrifice, and Dumbledore. And Malfoy,” Ron adds.

“You’ve been living with Hermione too long.”

“I hate to say it, but she’s pretty spot-on about this kind of stuff.”

Harry sighs.

“Look, it’s just an easy protective detail,” Ron points out. “What are you so concerned about?”

“That I’ll brutally murder the bloody twat I’m meant to be protectively detailing!”

“It’s not like you’ll be there alone,” Ron points out.

“I’m still a little put-out that you’ve managed to forgive them all so quickly,” Harry grumbles, folding his arms over his chest.

“We all made mistakes. And I’m grown enough to admit that and to maybe move on.” Ron looks annoyingly smug. Harry can’t have that.

“You wouldn’t be like this if it was _your_ assignment. Maybe I should try to get it transferred to you.”

“Good luck, mate. Robards chose you specifically because of your _special relationship_ with Malfoy. Figured you’d want to solve it quickly and get the whole thing over with.”

Harry sighs. “Who’re you on, then?”

“Euvegenia Riofro.”

“She’s like ninety-eight years old!”

“All the more need for someone to keep her safe,” Ron says haughtily.

“You are categorically the worst.”

Ron grins. “Aren’t I just?”

***

Draco’s waiting in what he has deemed The Waiting Room of the Recently Traumatised—it’s got soft lighting, squashy cushions, and floating tea trays for people reporting Magical Crimes.

Draco has grown to hate the public, hasn’t really been seen much in Wizarding Society of late, for very many reasons. And if all were up to him, he wouldn’t report this whole affair at all, except Mother—they threatened his mother, too, implicated her in it all. That’s a step too far in Draco’s eyes. She tops the list of individuals _not_ to fuck with, and maybe Pansy and Theo follow just behind.

Draco initially tried to ignore it and then he tried to solve the damn thing himself—but the issue with magic is that, while it leaves traces, it can also be elusive. Very much so.

So here he is at the Ministry, asking for help.

He’s on his third cup of tepid milky tea when Auror Rainer comes back. Draco appreciates her straight-forward, no-nonsense hairstyle (a solid bun low on her neck) and the fact that she hasn’t tried to coddle him yet.

He stands up and makes a Concerned Face, which is mirrored by Rainer. “We’re taking this very seriously. I want to assure you. We’re working to assign you a protective detail, someone to shadow you and you loved ones, those who have been actively threatened.”

Draco nods. “Thank you, yes.”

“Let’s move to my office, shall we?”

Draco walks beside her—doesn’t _follow,_ keeps his head held high, stays abreast of it. It’s all fine.

But Rainer’s office isn’t unoccupied, and what office in the Ministry is empty lately what with the over-saturation of witches and wizards needing jobs—it’s not as thought there’s much _to do_ in the wizarding world.

But she doesn’t seem to share it—rather, Potter’s sitting in what looks like a visitor’s chair, and he’s chewing at his thumbnail like a heathen. Cold dread goes through Draco’s every limb, makes him prickle slightly.

“Again, I want to assure you we are taking this situation very seriously.”

“You mean you’ve a surfeit of employees and not a whole lot of crime to fight?” Rainer raises a brow at him. “What? The whole Dark Lord debacle’s done and dusted. What really compares to that?”

“Quite,” she agrees.

“And bored Aurors cause more mayhem than they solve,” Potter mutters.

“He speaks.”

“I speak,” Potter replies.

“Why is it necessary for you to speak?”

“Generally, because I find it annoys you when I do, to be honest.” Potter’s got one eyebrow up like he was trying to be clever.

“I mean, on _this_ matter. Why are you—are you involved here?”

“I’m not the culprit!” Potter splutters.

Draco snorts. “Not what I meant, but I’m also not convinced.”

Rainer clears her throat. “Potter will be a part of your—security detail.”

_“What?_ Is that really _wise?”_

Potter huffs. “Rude. But I happen to agree with you for once.”

“My security detail ought not to actively set me on fire, I believe!”

“Please. What an inefficient way to kill someone,” Potter grits out with a sigh. “As I’m sure you know.”

Draco goes cold, has momentary thoughts about struggling to escape the Fiendfyre, about fearing death with each bated-breath moment, about the gut-punch that was the realisation that Crabbe once cast it and subsequently—died. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, for whatever reason, I’m not a murderer!”

“Near thing!”

“Stop it, please,” Rainer commands. They both fall silent but don’t look particularly chastised. “To be quite honest, Potter is the best wizard for this job. He knows you on some level, can analyse how to handle this situation, knows who might want to hurt you or cause you harm.”

“Because he knows how to think like one of my enemies?”

“Because he—you have a shared history,” she counters.

“Your mother saved my life. I’m not going to let anything happen to her,” Potter says, with a frankness Draco doesn’t usually see, as it’s typically covered by smugness. The honesty is disconcerting.

“Pretty words, Potter.”

“Look, I know this must actually be a big deal. You haven’t been seen in public for ages, and the place you turn up is _here?_ The hub of wizarding activity, with all its eyes and whispers. I get it.” Again with the disconcerting honesty.

“You _don’t_ get it,” Draco argues. “But—you’re not far off, I suppose.”

“Swell. Go team. Let’s go over the game plan, shall we?” Rainer claps her hands twice.

Draco gets the impression she’s a Muggleborn. From his experience, British witches and wizards born into the lifestyle do much more hemming and hawing, get caught up in niceties and formalities. Her manner sets Draco at ease just a bit, but it’s cancelled out by the discomfort of Potter’s presence.

They hash out the myriad details, and _both_ Draco and Potter balk when it comes to light that Potter will essentially be required to _move in_ to the Manor. Draco’s safe Wiltshire home is being invaded by a tousel-haired, specky git. The only person angrier about it than Draco is, insultingly, Potter.

***

Harry nearly gets assaulted by a vicious peacock before he even gets to the front door of the _Manor_ —after, naturally, struggling with the gate, which doesn’t want to let in anyone no in the Malfoy’s direct lineage, especially not since “The Occupation.” The gate tells him this in very haughty yet over-sharing tones. He eventually gets let in after sending his Patronus in to yell at Malfoy The Younger that his stupid gate is being impossible. It opens moments later.

Harry takes a fortifying breath, as though preparing for battle. He forges on.

An ancient house elf answers the door when he knocks the serpent-shaped knocker. “Good day, welcome guest. Please be letting Gully show you to the Yellow Sitting Room.” She’s wearing a soft pink pillowcase, intricately embroidered with roses. “Is sir wishing for tea to stave off damp? Gully is afraid sir will find some damp.” She clasps her hands together in supplication.

“England is know for its damp. Yes, Gully, tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Sir is most welcome! Please follow.”

She leads him to a large yellow-painted room that holds many wingbacks and a few shin-height tables. Harry startles slightly when he sees Narcissa Malfoy sitting casually in a chair, a book open on her lap. The table in front of her is covered in chaotic pieces of parchment and a few random objects—a rock, two feathers, and a small hourglass.

She stands to greet him as Gully leaves to fetch tea. “Good morning, Mr. Potter. We appreciate your being here, immensely so.”

“I—I’m glad. Have you been apprised of what this detail will mean for you?”

“Yes, indeed. Now, please sit. I’ve brought the salient objects here, for your perusal, as you work this case. These are the most—pernicious of the missives we’ve been sent.” She grimaces in distaste.

Harry leans in—this is something he can do, something he’s used to. This isn’t touchy-feely, it’s blood-and-guts. It’s visceral. He can solve this, and he can keep people safe. Some of the parchment pieces look innocuous enough—like _how is your garden-tending?_ and _let’s get together for tea._

But then things get creepy. One piece of parchment appears blood-splattered (“We tested it, it’s dragon.”) and the writing on it is nearly illegible. Harry sets it aside to examine others. Most are just full of vague threats about property destruction, some about doing bodily harm to Malfoy, and then a few about Gully and Narcissa. Those are very, very specific.

He sets everything aside, then, and levels Narcissa Malfoy with a considering gaze. “I think it may be useful to make up a list of those likely to send these sorts of—” He falls silent, grappling for a polite phrase.

“Disturbing murder letters?” Narcissa suggests.

“Precisely.” Harry bites down over a smile. He takes out a small notebook (Hermione helpfully supplies him with a new one every month—may have actually signed him up for an owl-delivery membership) and they work together to create a frighteningly sizable list.

“That’s—ma’am, I really hate to say this, but—there are quite a few names on this list.”

She raises a brow, as through unthreatened. “Alas and indeed.”

“Right. Well, let me get in touch with my contacts at the Ministry to see what immediately comes up.” Harry trails off, waiting to be guided.

Narcisssa summons Gully to show him to their main Floo fireplace, which Harry is secretly grateful for. The Manor is large and wildly complicated. He’s never been great with directions—at following them or figuring them out for himself.

He makes a few firecalls but ultimately ends up fairly disappointed. He knew most of the big contenders who might seek revenge on the Malfoys for _betraying the Dark Lord_ are in Azkaban, but even the lesser possibilities seem to have gone to ground. Even the Parkinsons seem to be playing nice, but Harry supposes that figures—Pansy always knew how to appear loyal without really _joining_ anything.

Harry tries to find his way back to relay this information, but he gets tripped up in Tea Room Number Three. He literally trips over the corner of a rug, falling down only to send a huge cloud of dust into the air.

“Marvellous display of technique, really,” says one of the portraits, drily. He’s wearing a long curly wig and frills.

“Piss off,” Harry mutters, clambering to his feet and trying to clear the dust away.

“Works better if you use magic, you know,” the portrait adds as Harry exits the room.

“Yeah, yeah.” He finds himself in a long corridor and peers side-to-side.

“Talking to yourself, Potter?” Malfoy asks, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Harry _does not_ startle. At all. All he does is notice that Malfoy is holding a leatherbound ledger. That’s absolutely it.

“Nah, that—curly portrait back there.” Harry points over his shoulder, trying not to stare. Malfoy is barefoot, wearing dark grey slacks and a light grey jumper, which looks criminal against his pale skin. The sleeves are a bit too long, hanging down over his knuckles, turning his appearance delicate, which is new and startlingly different, in theory.

“Osiris. He’s ornery, but mostly harmless. It’s Budgeweller you need to watch out for. Very fond of lewd euphemisms.” Malfoy crosses his arms. “We had to remove him from the formal dining room because he kept trying to look down ladies’ dresses.”

“Huh.” Harry immediately gets suspicious of Malfoy’s conversational tone but he rolls with it. “What—what are you doing?”

“Bookkeeping.” He holds the ledger up. “Mother used to do it, but her eyesight’s—lacking, of late.” Malfoy grimaces. “It’s a bit of a mess but she likes to—well. I was going to go over them with her.”

“Oh! Can I—where _is_ she exactly? Can’t find anything in this place.”

“What—what do you need her for?” Malfoy counters, face going cautious.

“Going over the three-foot-long list of enemies she gave me. Circling back to go over what I’ve found.”

“Which is?”

“Whole lotta nothing. Most people who want you dead are locked up. Except Parkinson.”

Malfoy snorts. “She wishes me dead daily. Anyway, she’s popping round this evening. Perhaps she can help and add some names to your list.” With that he turns around and Harry just—trots along behind him. He watches Malfoy hand his mother the leather ledger and he sits himself across from her as they chat finance. Externally, he’s composed, but internally, he sighs.

So far things have been civil, and Harry is starting to sweat. It’s not just because the case is shaping up to be a fair bit harder than he expected; it’s also that he and Malfoy hate each other but that both seem to have forgotten that, if just for a bit.

***

After going over the myriad creative ways the Horrible Deviant has been delivering the Murderous Notes of Criminal intent, which have been increasingly impressive and alarming as far as Draco is concerned, they take a short recess.

Draco is…slowly schooling himself on Muggle terminology, while alternately maintaining the Manor, trying to keep it from falling into decrepitude. He’s losing many battles at once, but it’s something he’s used to.

He throws a look over his shoulder, ensuring that his mother is occupied with their books, before he grabs Potter’s elbow and drags him sideways. “Why are you being polite to me?” he hisses. “What the hell?”

Potter yanks his arm away. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Draco waits, crossing his arms in a manner he likes to think is genteel.

“But I will. I did! Your mum—your mother, she, she didn’t have to save me.”

Draco gives his head one small shake. “Doesn’t explain it.”

“Fortitude. Honour. Duty.” Potter sighs. “I don’t know, all right? But I’m the best Auror for the job.”

“You fucking better be.”

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: musiclily
> 
> Chap 1 title from Childish Gambino


End file.
